Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationships:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Series:
Part 11 of whumptober 2025
Stats:
Published:
2025-10-11
Completed:
2025-10-14
Words:
2,027
Chapters:
2/2
Comments:
22
Kudos:
183
Bookmarks:
15
Hits:
1,885

and i tore the fear from my bones

Summary:

Bruce breaths in, slowly, and forces himself to speak past the pain, “Did you need something?”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He definitely re-tore his stitches earlier, if the tell-tale feeling of blood seeping through bandages at his side was anything to go off of.

“Yeah, actually,” Tim says, voice hesitant, “I was— uh, I was wondering if we could talk about something?’

 

or

 

Bruce attempts to hide an injury. The timing is awful.

 

[WHUMPTOBER 2025, DAY 11: “hidden injury”]
[WHUMPTOBER 2025, DAY 14: "wounded caretaker"]

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

“Hey, B?”

 

Tim’s voice echoes in the cave as he calls down from the top of the stairs. Bruce sits in front of his computer, face illuminated by the dull blue light of the screen, top half still hidden by the cowl he’s neglected to take off. off after patrol. 

 

“Hnn?” Bruce grunts, glancing over to his son. Nope. Bad move. The movement comes with a sharp jolt of pain, like someone twisting a knife into his side. He covers a strangled gasp with a cough. 

 

“I think I figured out what’s different about the most recent strain of fear gas,” Tim began, making his way towards Bruce with a pile of papers in his arms. Bruce is only half-listening, focussed on keeping his breathing even as pain wracks through his body. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

 

“—opening it.” Tim finishes, looking at Bruce expectantly. Bruce nods slowly, as if he had caught any of what Tim had said. 

 

“Hnn.” Bruce grunts again, too focussed on not spewing blood all over the cave to properly respond. Tim places the files in front of him, his expression flickering slightly. Bruce picks them up, flipping through them. His vision refuses to cooperate, so the words are nothing more than blurs on the paper, but they look well thought out, if the multitude of pages is anything to go off of. Tim stands off to the side, as if waiting for something. 

 

Bruce breaths in, slowly, and forces himself to speak past the pain, “Did you need something?”

 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He definitely re-tore his stitches earlier, if the tell-tale feeling of blood seeping through bandages at his side was anything to go off of. 

 

“Yeah, actually,” Tim says, voice hesitant, “I was— uh, I was wondering if we could talk about something?’

 

“No.” Bruce’s voice comes out much harsher than he intends, and he pushes down the guilt that forms at the hurt on Tim’s face. 

 

“Of course,” Tim’s hands are clenched into fists at his sides when he speaks, “You never want to talk. Always busy.”

 

“Tim.” 

 

“Bruce.” Tim echoes, copying Bruce’s tone.

 

“Can we do this later?” Every word hurts to say. Poisonous. Painful. It feels like a dagger is permanently lodged in his throat.

 

“You always want to do this later!” Tim hisses, “Every time you have to handle an issue you can’t punch your way through, you put it off until we forget about it. News flash, Bruce, we’re not forgetting shit.”

 

“We can talk,” Bruce promises, reaching up to pull off his cowl so he can look Tim in the eye properly. His fingers spasm at the movement but he refuses to falter, “Later.”

 

“What is it you’re so busy doing, anyway?” Tim breaks eye contact, turning to the computer. Bruce quickly reaches over to flick the off button, hiding his injury report from Tim’s view. For some reason, this of all things is what truly sets Tim off. 

 

“You know what?” Tim starts, “I don’t— I don’t give a shit anymore. Go fuck yourself, B. You’re such an asshole, you know? I just— I wanted to believe you were better than that. I guess I was wrong.” Tim turns on his heel, storming out of the cave while mumbling obscenities under his breath. 

 

Bruce wants to call out for him. He should. He shouldn’t let Tim leave.

 

He sits silently and only lets out a shaky breath once the boy had slammed the door behind him.

 

Bruce moves a shaky hand to his side, wincing at the wet feeling when he pulls his hand away. He bled through the suit? Shit. No wonder he was feeling lightheaded.  He forced himself to stand, clenching the edge of the desk white-knuckled to prevent himself from falling over as he removes the armor covering his chest. 

 

A large gash across his front bleeds crimson red, white bandages soaked through and practically useless. Bruce fumbles to unwrap them, his body refusing to cooperate with him. 

 

He’ll redo the bandages, and then he’ll go talk to Tim. And then he’ll find a way to properly deal with the injury. Tim comes first. His children always come first.

 

The roll of bandages is on the other side of the cave, because Bruce stupidly placed them back inside the med-kit instead of bringing them along with him.

 

His vision blurs further with each step of the way, and he barely manages to get halfway across the cave floor before his legs give out on him, and Bruce collapses in a heap on the floor. Fuck. 

 

His communicator is still on the desk, out of reach. But he doesn’t need to call for help. He’s been through worse. A bit of bleeding out is nothing compared to the broken spine. 

 

He coughs shakily, wincing at the sight of blood that splatters onto the concrete ground as he does so. Internal bleeding too? That’s much more difficult to— 

 

No. He’s fine. He has to be. Bruce digs his fingers into the ground, pulling himself forward inch by inch. The gritty concrete digs into the pads of his fingers, drawing blood and getting rock stuck between the crevices. 

 

A door opens. He barely hears it. The sound of his blood pumping is excruciatingly loud, but it proves he’s alive. He’s fine.  His heart rate is still consistent, which means he hasn’t lost enough blood to worry about yet. 

 

“Bruce,”The voice of his eldest son is rightfully angry— Bruce assumes Tim went to talk to him. There’s a sense of guilt to that. Dick shouldn’t be forced to handle his brother’s problems. That should be Bruce’s duty. He should apologize, right? He opens his mouth, but words refuse to come out. Only blood. So much blood. Why—

 

“Tim said—”

 

Dick cuts himself off, faltering to a stop halfway down the stairs, where he spots the man on the ground. “Bruce!”

 

“’M fine,” Bruce forces out at Dick’s worried expression— is he worried? He sounds worried. But his son is nothing more than a black and blue blur. 

 

“I’m fine.” He repeats. 

 

Bruce’s vision fades to black before Dick can respond.

Chapter 2

Notes:

this second chapter is dedicated to ImCote, pistachiocupcake24, TeapotOfBees, hearts2bake and spiderfan33. thanks for commenting and giving me motivation to write a sequel. wihout your comments bruce wouldve just stayed dying on the floor forever.

(if youre a person mentioned above and you dont want your name listed, lmk, ill take it off!)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne stands in an alleyway. It’s dark and unfamiliar and no place for a child to be. 

 

He is eight years old.

 

He is alone. 

 

He’s too young to understand what’s happened. Too young to— no. He knows what’s happened. He just doesn’t want to accept it. And so he sits by his father’s still-warm body, small hands clenched tight in the man’s bloodstained jacket, and he begs, sobbing into the white-turned-red shirt, soaking it further with tears. 

 

“Please. I’m sorry.”

 

He doesn’t know who he’s apologising to. He doesn’t think it matters. 

 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

 

Nobody hears him. 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Bruce.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Bruce.”

 

“I’m so—”

 

“Bruce!”

 

Bruce’s eyes open to an unfamiliar brightness, fluorescent lights shining in his eyes. A blurry figure leans over him, with dark hair and a blue hoodie, slowly coming into focus. Dick. When did he change out of uniform? How long had Bruce been passed out? How—

 

“It’s only been a few hours,” Dick said, as if reading Bruce’s mind, or at the very least his panicked expression, “Four, to be exact. Leslie came over and stitched you up properly. Took a while, but you should recover fully. She said no patrolling for a week—“ Dick paused at that, “—And when you inevitably have an issue with that, take it up with her, not me. Nothing big happened while you were asleep, either. Steph pushed Damian down the stairs, but Alfred separated them before he could retaliate.” 

 

“And Tim?” Bruce’s voice is rough— it hurts much less to speak, but it’s still irritating. A problem. Dick pulls his eyes away from Bruce’s, looking vaguely uncomfortable. 

 

“He’s— Well, he’s still pissed at you, but I think he’s more guilty than anything. You know how he gets. But—” Dick continues before Bruce has a chance to respond, “He shouldn’t feel guilty. You should feel guilty. What the hell, B? You can’t just get injured like that and not tell anyone. Do you know how scared I was? You— Be glad it was me that found you, and not any of the kids.” 

 

I’m sorry. Bruce can’t force the words out, even if he knows he should.  I’m sorry.

 

“You’re my kid, too.” Bruce says instead. Dick tenses, tilting his head slowly as he examines Bruce’s expression. 

 

“Yeah, alright.” Dick says finally, voice halfhearted. He turns his back to Bruce, reaching for a pill bottle laying out on the table at the other end of the room. 

 

“Dick.”

 

“Leslie said she gave you some medications for the pain. Said you might be a bit out of it at first.” 

 

Dick didn’t believe him. Bruce couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it. Bruce had never been good at expressing affection, and when Dick came into his life— he wasn’t ready to be a parent. Maybe he still wasn’t. Every conversation with his children seemed to end in arguments. 

 

His son tossed the bottle to the food of Bruce’s bed, the pills rattling quietly inside. 

 

“How’d you get so hurt, anyway?” Dick asked, faux casualness,  “There were so many of us on patrol last night. Surely we would’ve…”

 

“Can you tell Tim I want to talk to him?” Bruce tried changing the topic, desperate to avoid that question. Dick’s eyes narrowed, seeing right through it. Thankfully, he let it pass without a comment. 

 

“Tim will talk to you when he’s ready.” 

 

“And you don’t get to decide when that is. Tim can handle himself. He’s not a child.” Bruce’s voice is unintentionally sharp, but he’s just… he’s tired. He’s tired. But Dick’s eyes flash with hurt, and then anger.

 

“Not a child? When did that ever matter to you?”

 

Bruce opens his mouth to defend himself, but this is an old wound, and intentionally or not, he tore it back open. Perhaps it was time, anyway.

 

“Or is that— Is that the argument you told yourself, when you brought us out on patrol? We weren’t children. I was twelve years old, B. I don’t care how much I begged, you should’ve known better not to let me go out and fight.

 

But you didn’t. You didn’t know better, and so you let me go out there. And then you let Jason go out there. And he died. But that wasn’t enough either. Steph, Tim, Cass, Duke, Damian— none of us should’ve been fighting. Ever.”

 

“It’s a much more complicated situation than that—”

 

“Spending our childhoods learning how to survive a stab wound—”

 

“Contingencies and plans to—”

 

“Fuck your plans, Bruce!”

 

They both fall silent. There’s no sound, except for their breathing and the ringing in Bruce’s ears. 

 

“I just can’t understand— why?”

 

There’s an answer— a thousand answers Bruce can give. He can tell the truth. He can lie. But the truth is ugly and raw and he’s done enough lying to last himself a lifetime. So he stays silent. 

 

Dick huffs out a shaky sigh and runs a hand through his hair, tangling fingers in dark locks. Shame claws at Bruce’s insides, dark and suffocating and well deserved.

 

“I’m sorry.” he mutters, gaze unmoving from the pill bottle at the foot of his bed, voice barely above a whisper. He doesn’t know if Dick hears him.

 

There’s the noise of retreating footsteps, and the door hinges squeaking open. Bruce waits for the tell-tale sound of the door closing, but it doesn’t come. He lifts his eyes to find Dick lingering in the doorway, as if he wants to say something. After a moment, his son speaks.

 

“Don’t— don’t brush Tim off, okay? I mean, I know that it wasn’t exactly the best timing, but if you’re not bleeding out— talk to him. And if you’re hurt… let one of us know. Let me know. You can't just rely on yourself.” 

 

Bruce doesn’t speak, instead nodding silently. It feels like the sort of speech he should be giving his kid, not the other way around. 

 

“You’re not invincible, and none of us think you are, so don’t try to be.”

Notes:

writing this chapter was a race between me and my 3% battery charge btw. i won. barely.

 

they were gonna hug but i asked my friend and they said that shouldnt so uh. sorry.

if anyone can successfully guess a) how bruce got injured or b) what tim wants to talk about, ill write you a 3rd chapter :)

Notes:

holy CRAP this is awful i sincerely apologize. anyway uh. im on tumblr @idontknow-howtointernet

Series this work belongs to: